L&O: Nightmares
by lupinskitten
Summary: The prosecution of a serial rapist and murderer takes a dark turn when he's released on bail, placing ADA Claire Kincaid in jeopardy.
1. Chapter 1

**NIGHTMARES**

_She scratched frantically at the door, attempting to get out. Her fingernails were torn and bleeding. She looked desperately up at the single window, so far above. The warehouse was deserted. No one would hear her screams. She could feel panic rising in her throat, a panic like she had never before experienced._

_Then there was a creak. Footsteps, beyond the iron door bolted from the outside. She shrank, trembling, against the wall. The footsteps neared. There was a loud sound as the bolt was driven back. It slowly slid open, and he stepped inside…_

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Jack McCoy placed the papers into his case, his thoughts on the trial. They had been given a continuance. It was not his fault the police could not gather enough evidence, that what they had gathered was thrown out by the presiding judge, or that the defendant was incompetent, and his lawyer aggravating. He glanced at his watch. Claire was late, as she had been for the past week. Claire was never late, not until recently. He knew better than to ask. Her private life was no concern of his. She had made that profoundly clear. There were moments when she looked at him, when she started to say something, that he wondered if it might not be more, but he would not push her. Too many people had already pushed her.

He had just zipped his folder and picked up his coffee off the desk when she came in, haggard and pale. "You're late again," he said. It was not so much an admonishment as concern.

There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Claire had not been sleeping well. The case she was working on was particularly disturbing. There wasn't enough evidence, just rooms of dead girls, locked in empty warehouse buildings. The first body had been found by accident. Some teens had broken in through a window and used the darkened structure to shoot up. One of the girls had stumbled off to throw up and found her, a young woman strangled and assaulted. It would be McCoy's case to prosecute, when they had enough for an arrest, but he was in the midst of a murder trial. She was supposed to handle it. The nightmares had begun, horrible dreams in which she was the one trapped, waiting for her killer. There was evidence the girls had been alive some hours before he…

"I'm sorry."

She knew he was speculating, by the way he looked at her. His brown eyes narrowed slightly, undistracted by the noise outside the office. There were voices, arguments, footsteps, the squeak of the trash man as he made his morning rounds. They shredded mountains of paperwork. His lean hand set his briefcase back on the desk, the coffee cup beside it, and he came to shut the door. She knew it was serious by the look on his face when he turned to her.

"Claire, if you need some time off—"

"I don't. I'm fine." She removed her purse and dropped it in the couch, purposefully avoiding his gaze. Jack's brows lifted slightly as he contemplated her, turned away from him. It was a beat before he replied, "You're not fine."

How could she admit that she was frightened, that these nightmares made her unable to sleep for more than a few hours? Claire was accustomed to such cases. She prosecuted killers like this one every day, and when they found the son of a bitch responsible, she would prosecute him too. She didn't want to let her guard down around Jack McCoy. He was never shaken, always determined, the kind of boss no one envied her in having but everyone admired. It brought a squared motion to her shoulders, and she looked up at him with her mouth set in a firm line.

"This really is none of your business, Jack," she said, and crossed to her office. The shades were pulled and she opened them, letting in the brilliant morning sunlight. The street below was abuzz with traffic. Jack followed her to the doorway, his lean form filling it impressively, and there was a touch of anger in his gravely voice.

"It _is my business_ if it influences your work."

"If you're so concerned, talk to Adam." Her voice was cold as she yanked open her desk drawer, searching for something. She didn't even know what it was, only that she had to do something to occupy her hands.

"I did."

This got her attention. She looked up at him, standing with his hands in his pockets. Jack saw something pass through her gaze, an emotion that was gone in an instant as she set her jaw and inquired, "And what did he say?"

"That you're working the Jody Hampstead case."

"Just like a thousand others."

She found the file on her desk and sat down to open it. There was no end to her frustration, the knowledge that it was the guy they had under surveillance, but there was no way to prove it, just a shred of evidence that any judge would throw out on appeal. The manner in which she turned through the file indicated how upset she was. Jack knew he was treading on thin ice, but came into the office and closed the door. Now they could no longer hear anything from their neighbors, not the sound of the phone ringing or attorneys discussing the latest games around the water cooler. His presence filled the room: a reassuring and silent form that she wanted to believe would make it all right.

"Claire," he said softly, and she felt her resolve crumble. Whenever he took that tone with her, and it was not often, it changed everything. She had come into this office, this department, determined not to fall for him. McCoy had a reputation for romancing his assistants. He had known the minute he saw her; the twinkle in his eye had made it more than profoundly obvious. It had set her guard against him, but lately she had found her resolve weakening. That he was so concerned only furthered her tormented thoughts. She stared at the desk, then lifted her eyes to his.

"God knows you are one of the finest attorneys I have ever known," he said, "but this case is clearly unsettling you. I want you to give it back to Adam, so it can be re-assigned." His tone was so calm, so melancholy and persuasive, that she could not find it in her heart to be angry with him.

"I can't, Jack," she replied. "I know the only way I'm going to beat this is to see him behind bars, to make him pay for what he has done."

He was silent a moment, studying her. "I could go over your head on this," he said.

She looked at him. "But you won't."

No, he wouldn't.


	2. Chapter 2

SIX WEEKS LATER

The iron door swung behind them with a dull clank, hitting the automatic locks. Claire had been in this prison visitation room numerous times. She and Ben Stone had stared down notorious murderers across the narrow table. It was now Jack's turn to be at her side, his movements practiced as he rested his arms on the table. He had something Ben Stone lacked, a presence that more clearly depicted his thoughts. And yet he could bluff like no one she had ever met, his face becoming as blank and impartial as a statue of stone. His voice, one that could be so flirtatious, so command in the courtroom, so remarkable when it was lowered to a softened whisper, would turn to ice and send a shiver up her spine.

The man across from them was haggard in appearance, so pale that he might not have seen the sunlight in months, for he lived and worked by nightly hours. It was his shroud, his purpose for living, when he tormented his victims. He waited for twilight and took them in darkness, keeping them throughout the following day so that he might torment them. His eyes were green, a shade so pale that it seemed transparent in the weak sunlight shining through the bar-crossed window. He belonged in a cave rather than a simple room. There was something animalistic in those dreadful eyes, something so primal that it disarmed her.

He looked at her as she sat down, and the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. His attorney, a bulk of a man dressed in a pressed gray suit, sat down beside him. "You don't have a hope in hell of a conviction, McCoy," he said. Claire wanted to look at him but couldn't. She could not remove her eyes from the perpetrator. He continued to stare at her, dauntingly, as if attempting to envision what she might look like laying on the cement floor.

"We have a mountain of evidence against your client. We have his victim's necklace in his apartment, the lock of hair from the other murder case. He never attempted to conceal his crimes. With all due respect, it's as if he _wanted_ to get caught!" Jack turned to the man steadily appraising his assistant, repulsion surfacing in the depths of complacency as he viewed the man that had lured three girls to their brutal deaths. "I'm offering twenty-five to life," he said. "But I won't be heartbroken if you turn it down. What I really want is to strap him to a gurney and put a needle through his arm."

"If you are so confident of your evidence, why are you here?"

Claire returned his gaze coldly, refusing to let him see how shaken she was. The brilliant green eyes turned to her companion, with a look so penetrating that it even took Jack aback. A smile touched his lips. "Because," he said, "he wants to know where the other one is. The blonde. She was someone important, wasn't she? Someone your boss cares about. One of those girls from the upper West Side. Her daddy owns a big corporation. That's what they want, isn't it? They want to know what I did with her."

The sunlight filtering through the room could not lessen its intensity. Jack never flinched, but noted where the man's eyes strayed. Claire felt him perceptively tense at her side. He had suggested she not come with him, but she had refused. She had to see the man that haunted her nightmares, to look into his eyes and reassure herself that the system would work. It _had_ to work. She was against the death penalty on principle, but as she stared across the small table in that cold room, at a man whose darkness was so all-consuming that it made her feel physically ill, she began to question her resolve.

"You want to know what she was doing in my part of town," he continued, his voice tantalizing, as though he were tempting a school child with a prize. "What would a pretty girl like that be doing in the lower end?"

"Harmon, I suggest you remain silent," his attorney said.

"Why? They know what I did. This is what they want, for me to tease them with the truth, like dogs after a scrap of meat." He smirked and looked from Jack to Claire once more, his gaze hardening. "What do you think of it?" he asked. "Does it scare you? It fascinates you, I can see. You want to know why I did it. How much do you want to know, Miss Kincaid? Does thinking about it, wondering what I did to them, _excite_ _you_?"

Pushing his chair back from the table, Jack rose to his feet. This was Adam's idea, but five minutes was enough to persuade him it was not worth the reward. Harmon deserved to die, not spend the rest of his life in prison gloating over what he had done. "This meeting is over," he said. "You can tell your client he's lost his chance. I'll see him in court."

Claire gathered up her things and followed. She maintained utter calm despite the quickening of her heart, for she could feel him watching her as they approached the gate. They both turned as a voice called after them. "I won't mind seeing _you_ in court, Miss Kincaid." He paused, ignoring the warning hand of his lawyer on his arm. "I like blondes," he confessed. "But I like brunettes more."

His laughter echoed down the passage after them. Jack said nothing as he signed out, tossing his visitor's clip on the presiding officer's desk. It was clear from his movements that he was furious. Claire remained silent as well. She could not erase the crime scene photos from her mind. The blood on the doorknob, where the girls had fought so hard to get free that they had torn up their fingers; the eerie little window overhead, letting in faint streams of light; the provocative posture of the dead body.

Harmon deserved whatever he got.


	3. Chapter 3

Most of the assistant distract attorneys had gone home, but McCoy's office was accustomed to working late hours. There were still loose ends and they had a summation the next morning before the trial judge, to determine if the evidence was to be allowed into court. Jack had known when the files were turned over to him that the police had been less than careful in gathering evidence. Everything hinged on the locket and lock of hair, and there was a chance they might lose it altogether. For the past hour, over a late dinner of Chinese food, he and Claire had poured over their options, forming a formidable argument.

Her hair was tangled and she looked tired, but she still worked with determination. He expected long hours from his staff, and she was more than content to be there with him. It was quiet outside the office, and she wasn't alone. Most of the time she didn't mind her solitary lifestyle, but the past week had been difficult for her, and it was comforting to have his presence so near. She turned another page of her draft and felt him watching her. He often did. It never unnerved her, and he didn't mean it to. It was a simple brand of observation, intentness without purpose behind it.

Jack glanced at the clock and saw it was after eleven. "I think we have done more than enough tonight," he said, interrupting her train of thought. For an instant he thought she looked pained, as if the thought of leaving was disconcerting for her. Claire tiredly gathered her things and walked with him down the hall. There was no one there but the night cleaning crew, unsurprised to see them. They often worked late hours. Jack pushed the elevator button and waited. It slowly came up and opened, admitting them. It was late and they would have to take a taxi. He didn't even ask her if she wanted to share one; it was assumed.

The ride was made in contented silence, once the cabbie realized neither was in the mood for conversation. He left the meter running and waited as Jack walked her up the stairs of her apartment building. She fitted the key in the lock and looked at him. "Good night, Jack," she said. He smiled faintly in the dim light of the street lanterns and repeated the gesture, returning to the cab. She was sorry to see him go, uneasy as she vanished into the building and locked herself into her apartment. She should feel content; the man was behind bars. Rather than attempting to sleep while so tense, she prepared a bath and soaked in it until she was drowsy.

For once, there were no nightmares.


	4. Chapter 4

It was raining. Claire hurried from the taxi to the courthouse steps, sheltering her face beneath an umbrella that the wind threatened to whip free. She entered somewhat tousled, checking her watch and seeing that she had minutes to spare. McCoy was standing in the hall when she entered, and as she closed her umbrella said irritably, "Where have _you_ been?" He didn't await a response as he started down the corridor, her hurrying in order to keep up. She didn't have to wait long to learn what his foul mood was about.

"Our evidence is about to get thrown out. It seems the police were less than honest with us about how they obtained it." The ring on his left hand, the one he had gotten in college that never seemed to leave his slender fingers, flashed in the dull lights as he pushed the elevator button. Claire tucked her hair behind her ears, wishing that she had pulled it back that morning. The lights had flickered once during the night, and her alarm had not gone off. As the elevator doors rolled open and expelled several attorneys, who either glanced at them with disinterest or exchanged pleasantries, he said, "Logan neglected to mention that he slammed Harmon's head through a wall during the interrogation."

She winced. Mike Logan was a good cop, but had an incurable Irish temper that had gotten him a number of assault complaints. She watched her companion pull himself together in the short ride upstairs, utter composure coming over his face. By the time they entered the judge's chambers, he was confident and poised. Everyone had moaned when the docket judge was assigned, for McCoy had a longstanding track record with this judge, who simply didn't like him. One of the more liberal judges on the circuit, she was extremely harsh with the prosecution. The case was as good as lost when they entered the room, but Jack put up a good argument regardless. There was a moment when the judge simply looked at him, and Claire held her breath, attempting to ignore the pale green eyes boring into the back of her head, for the defendant lounged in a chair nearby.

"Mr. McCoy, I appreciate that the evidence represents the meat of your case, but the defense has presented an argument that it was illegally obtained through the use of excessive force. Its placement was such that I do not believe it would have been found without his assistance, and therefore the evidence is excluded."

It was nothing less than he had expected, but nevertheless damaging. Jack shook his head, biting his lip as he so often did when repressing his anger. Claire could feel it radiating off him, but nothing prepared them for the defense attorney's next statement.

"Your Honor, in light of that ruling I see no reason not to appeal for a dismissal. Without the evidence, the prosecution has no case."

"We have a witness that places him near the scene of the crime." Jack was not about to let this one get away. There was aggravation in his dark eyes, but he contained his sense of urgency well. "We have forensics that link him to the crime scene. It's hardly circumstantial."

The judge leaned back in her chair. The rain was pattering against the window that overlooked the street. Claire purposefully avoided looking at the defendant, who switched his gaze from her slender form to the older woman behind the desk. "Your motion to dismiss is denied, Counselor. The prosecution has enough to take to trial."

His attorney had not been anticipating anything less, and quickly applied, "Then at least let us address terms of bail, Your Honor. I see no reason for my client to remain incarcerated."

Jack's astonishment was apparent. "He lured three young women into a remote district, tortured, raped, and murdered them, Your Honor. He is a clear threat to society."

"There is no proof of that. Their evidence is circumstantial. He is innocent until proven guilty. He should not be forced to suffer needlessly, when he has strong ties to the community!"

The attorney leaned forward in his chair, and turned his gaze to Jack, who was staring at him in open astonishment, horrified. Claire, who had until remained silent as she lingered in the background, said, "His association to a family of means does not grant strong ties, Your Honor. His father has disowned him, and he has no reliable employment. There is nothing to keep him here if he is released, and no guarantee he won't target another victim."

"The evidence is not sufficient to hold him without bail!"

"To release him would be a clear violation of public safety!"

Claire could feel the man's smirk all the way across the room. She dared glance at him and found he was still looking at her, his gaze suggestive of his thoughts. Turning her back on him, she shifted nearer to Jack. He sensed her tension, but was too intent on the argument to acknowledge it.

The judge lifted her hand to halt them, tiredness etching across her brow. "I have heard enough," she said. "I understand your concerns, Mr. McCoy, but it's my job to acknowledge only the evidence remaining. I see no reason why bail should not be granted, but I won't make it easy. Half a million, bail or bond, and police surveillance after his release. I intend for him to turn up at trial."

"Your Honor!"

"No arguments, Mr. McCoy. I have made my decision."

"Then be informed of my notice to appeal!"

Claire turned and looked at the defendant, who was leering up at her. His attorney took him by the arm and led him out. They left the chambers in a despairing silence. Jack pushed the elevator button angrily. "That judge is a damn fool," he said. "We'll start the appeal as soon as we return to the office. Hopefully, we can get bail overturned before he raises sufficient funds."

The doors rolled open and they stepped inside. "His father has deep pockets," Claire said, "but I'm not sure he's willing to help. He slammed the door in my face when I went to speak with him." She sighed and leaned against the back of the elevator as the doors closed. The halls were not as crowded at this time of day, and they were alone. Jack looked at her and his eyes softened, sensing that she was nursing a headache. He had been rather sharp with her that morning and was sorry for it, for he could see she was still deeply troubled.

"Tension headache?" he inquired, and she opened her eyes to look at him. There came a hint of a smile across his face, something mischievous flashing in his eyes. His sense of humor often returned to break the monotony of his thoughts, and lessen his frustration. "I would offer you a neck rub when we get back to the office, if I weren't convinced you would turn it down."

She gave him a long-suffering glance and pushed away from the wall as the doors opened. It was still raining and they shared the umbrella as they hurried down the steps and caught a cab. Within the hour she was in her office, in the half-gloom, bent over her desk intently writing. She could hear Jack's voice on the phone, the words jumbled through the half-closed door between their offices. Law books lay open on the desk around her, and she remained unaware of his presence until he picked one up and looked at the passage marked.

"I talked with Adam, and made some calls," he said. "We have a bail hearing in the morning. If he does get out, he'll be incarcerated again in a few hours. It's a high enough profile case that a second judge won't uphold the verdict."

Claire nodded, turning her pencil over and staring at the words scribbled on the legal pad in front of her. Jack's hand was on the back of her chair, as he leaned slightly over her, casting his shadow across the desk. It was so subtle that she didn't fight it; his fingers drifted to her shoulder, sliding over the silk of her blouse. She didn't pull away as he stepped behind her, reaching the base of her neck. There was something delicate and sensual in his touch, deeply persuasive. Her eyes drifted closed as he rubbed her shoulder blades and neck, skillfully finding the pressure points that sent relief into her throbbing skull. She was stiff beneath his working hands at first, but slowly relaxed.

Warm fingers continued to massage, sliding up into her hair and entangling in her dark locks. Claire responded as a child might, drawing in her breath ever so slightly and leaning into the caress. Warmth was spreading through her, instincts prompted by his caress. Jack was aware of it, knowing he came dangerously near to familiarity. She had never allowed him to touch her before, except in a passing caress. He dropped his hand to her shoulder, sliding his fingers down her arm as he stepped back. It was a dangerous enticement, too personal for the office.

There came a soft rap at the door, and an intern stuck in her head. "Mr. Schiff wants you in his office, Mr. McCoy." Too preoccupied with her errands to notice the flush in Claire's beautiful features, the intern hurried once more on her way. They looked at one another, the gaze intense and lingering, before he drew his hand across her shoulder in passing and left. He was gone for much of the afternoon and when he returned, she had gone home. It was a Friday and no one objected. Jack was restless himself, but had enough to occupy him for several hours. He was nearly the elevator at a quarter past nine when someone came hurrying along after him, and thrust a piece of paper into his hand. His eyes lit upon the scribbled note and as the doors rolled open, he demanded, "When was this delivered?"

"Just a few minutes ago. I've been all over the building looking for you."

Dread was spreading through him.

Harmon was out on bail.


	5. Chapter 5

It was early enough that she didn't mind taking the subway. Her steps were even on the pavement, flooding down the stairs and through the token booths with numerous other businesspeople retiring home after a long week. None of them paid any attention to her as she stood waiting for the train to pull in. Fingers rubbing her neck where McCoy had caressed her, Claire tried not to think of the feelings it had aroused. She had not been touched like that in a long time, not since the judge that had nearly ruined her reputation and practice. Her hand fell as the doors opened and she stepped inside, taking hold of one of the handles hanging from the ceiling. They pulled away with a jerk, and she exchanged tired smiles with a woman seated nearby, holding her rambunctious child by the back of his coat.

Even though the subway car was crowded, and numerous eyes flashed in all directions, Claire felt she was being observed. It was an emotion she repressed instinctively, but she switched hands on the handle and discreetly looked around. No one appeared to be watching her, beyond the teen slumped to the back of the car, and he only held her gaze for a moment before turning away, his head moving to the headphones blasting rap into his ears. Attempting to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she watched the lanes as they passed, and disembarked on the landing two blocks from her home. It was a well-observed area and she normally felt safe returning this time of night. Her neighbors were on their way out of the building when she passed, and exchanged pleasantries with her. She had once had to use their phone.

Removing her keys from her purse, she ascended the stairs and fitted the key into the lock. It happened again, the sensation of being watched. Her head turned toward the right, sending a scathing glance toward the rear of the hall and the door that lead out to the fire escape. Nothing moved. No sound could be heard beyond the dim noise of a television beyond one of the numerous closed doors. Forcing herself to remain calm, she turned back to her door—and gasped. He was standing only a few feet from her, his tranquil green eyes studying her with the utmost curiosity. She fumbled with her keys as he came toward her. They turned, unlocking the door. She ran inside but he prevented from closing, jamming his body through the opening.

The phone started ringing. Claire threw her weight against the door, receiving a profane curse as he threw it open. It struck her across the face and sent her crashing to the floor, dazed. The phone was still ringing, dimly, in the background. She knew it was Jack.

He stood over her. She could see his faint outline in the darkness. It was fuzzy, the pain in her head escalating. He lifted his hand, a distant motion as she struggled to maintain consciousness, and brought the back of it down across her face.

The phone was still ringing.

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Slamming down the phone, Jack McCoy bolted for the empty corridor. The janitor looked at him strangely as he passed, stepping neatly out of the way as Jack's long legs carried him at a rapid pace down the stairs. He didn't have the patience to wait for an elevator. He had phoned Lennie Briscoe at the precinct, but knew he could get there faster. The cab he caught at the curb seemed to take an eternity to reach her apartment. It was an enclosed building, but there was an older couple leaving that let him in. Her rooms were on the upper floor. It was strangely quiet as he approached, and the sense of dread settling into his bones increased as he reached her door. It remained closed.

He reached out to knock, and the motion caused it to slide in several inches. Jack froze, his pulse quickening. Then, tentatively, he pushed it open into the looming darkness within. The chain swung, his shadow falling into the living room in the open square of light the corridor provided. He knew the apartment was empty even before he turned on the lights. Claire was meticulous, but something was wrong. Her case lay open on the floor by the couch, its papers scattered across the carpet. Distantly, he could hear sirens.

He then did something he hadn't done in years. He prayed.


	6. Chapter 6

She was in pain.

That was the first thing that entered her consciousness: the utter agony of the pounding in her skull. It was dark, so dark that she could barely make out her surroundings. It was an empty room, a high window peering out into the street. It let in only a faint light from what she believed was the docks, because she could hear distant ship horns. Claire dared not move for a moment, wondering if she would throw up. Then she reached up, feeling strangely disconnected from her body, and touched the side of her head. Her fingers came away damp with what she knew must be blood.

She was lying on the cold cement floor. Faintly, she could hear the sound of traffic in the distance, but it was so far away that she knew it would be useless to cry out for help. None of the other girls had gotten assistance either. He knew where to keep them, where to put them so their screams would not be heeded. He might even be lingering nearby, listening, hoping to hear her cry out for help. She slowly tried to rise and found that her legs wouldn't support her, the whirling rush of blood in her head coming forefront and forcing her to remain seated. She leaned against the cold wall and cradled her head in her hands.

It was her nightmare, come to life.

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Lennie Briscoe ran his hands over his face and rested his elbows on the desk. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looked across at Mike, realizing that his face was probably just as pale as that of his partner. She had been missing for twelve hours. They had been over every inch of her building, knocked on every door. No one had seen anything. It was believed he had sneaked her down the fire escape, but it was impossible to believe it had gone unobserved, that it could be so carefully planned in just the few hours since he had been released. His timing had been perfect, the assault executed with precision and confidence.

McCoy had refused to go home, remaining in Lt. Van Buren's office. Lennie could see him through the glass windows, the shades remaining up. Jack was seated in the corner, his lithe fingers linked together, brooding brow darkening as each hour passed. They had half the cops in the city scouring the street, chasing down leads. Van Buren had insisted they come back for an hour, to check in and rest. She knew how important this was to all of them. She had come in at two in the morning to handle it personally. Lennie saw her speaking with McCoy, saw her lips move and him respond. Both of them looked weary, but McCoy had moved beyond concerned. His features were completely blank, the look in his eyes soulless.

They all knew who was responsible. But no one knew where Harmon was. He had been released, and escorted home by the police. Somehow, he had escaped their surveillance team. Lennie turned his eyes away from the inner office, away from Van Buren's concern and Jack's stony countenance, and found Logan staring at him.

"Damn it, Lennie," he said; "we can't just sit here. If we have to scour every warehouse this side of the Hudson, let's do it."

Glancing in the direction of the office, Lennie reached for his coat and agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

Light was streaming through the high window. Claire could now see that she was in a small room, no doubt in the broken-down warehouse district. The iron door was tightly closed and barred from the outside, just like images from the crime scene photos. Only there were no bloody marks around the door, no attempts made to get out. That was what he wanted, her desperation, her fingernails torn and bloody. The panic to settle in her as each hour passed, drawing her nearer to the twilight that would bring his form to the doorway. She would not give him that satisfaction. Surely they had found her missing by now, and she knew Jack. He wouldn't rest until she was found.

It had grown cold overnight and she rubbed her shoulders, attempting to bring some warmth back into them. Her muscles were stiff from lack of movement, but it took great effort to prompt her to stand. Hand trailing against the cement wall, she moved hesitantly about her prison. She had always woken up in her nightmares, before the door fully opened, but it was the same room, the same closed in space. She had always hated closed in spaces. Once she had gotten locked beneath the stairs in her family's spacious country home. That was when she had bloodied her fingers, trying to pry her way out. The maid had found her in hysterics several hours later, sitting in the darkness, holding her legs, rocking back and forth. She hated the feeling of being trapped.

She had faced trials before, had felt so afraid that she couldn't prompt speech, had looked into the eyes of murderers and rapists without backing down. But this was different. In those situations, she was in control. Here, she was helpless. She had nothing to protect her except her mind, her sanity, and she fought to prevent panic from flooding into her as she surveyed her prison, the ribbon of light creeping across the floor.

She knew that once it was gone, it would bring him to her. He liked darkness. It suited him.

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With each hour that passed, Jack came closer to desperation. He knew from the case file that Harmon liked to keep his victims alive for twenty-four hours before he killed them. Before he—

The thought prompted him to rise to his feet and he began to pace. How long he paced, he didn't know, only that a phone call brought his attention to Van Buren's face. She held up one finger, prompting a lifting of his eyebrows in hope.

"… I see. Yes, yes, I will be there immediately. Don't go in unless absolutely necessary."

She slammed down the phone and looked at him. There was hope in her voice, after hours of shaken concern. "He made a mistake. They found Claire's car six blocks from the warehouse district, in one of the empty outbuildings."

Jack drew open the door. "Am I going with you," he asked, "or are you going with me?"

It was nearing darkness when they crossed the bridge, pulling up alongside a long squadron of cars. Faces turned in the glare of the headlights, squinting as they attempted to see the figures joining them. Lennie was the first to brief them, informing them that a boy had seen figures go into a warehouse. They had not emerged. He stood in the background with a police officer, looking scared.

He couldn't have been more than twelve years old, busted with a joint in his pocket.

No one cared.

"Are you sure it's him?" Anita asked, her tone in utter seriousness. She was beautiful in the passing twilight; still young enough to regain a sense of mystery but motherhood had softened her slightly, adding a hint of care to her features. No one wanted to say it, but Logan did, his shrewd eyes mournful as he said what all were thinking.

"It had better be. We're running out of time."

Pressing her lips into a firm line, Anita looked around at the officers awaiting instruction. "Does he know we're here?"

"We've been very careful, but by now he knows we're looking for him."

"So this could turn into a potential hostage situation."

"Hostage situation or not, we have to try, Lu." It was a title of affection that softened the mood, but only slightly. There was tension among them, as she sent them in. Jack had lingered slightly in the background throughout, but now came forward.

"I want to go with them," he said.

Anita hated the look in his eyes, hated that she had to turn him down, but her voice remained calm as she replied, "We can't risk it, Counselor." She knew he wouldn't take it well, and he didn't, but she never anticipated the tremor that entered his voice. It almost broke as he said, "Damn it, Anita, it's _Claire_."

Maybe then she understood. Maybe then she saw beyond the obvious. Maybe then it sank in, the realization that he cared more for a reason she had failed to observe. It made sense in that moment, the casual tone between them, the protectiveness he showed for her at all times, how harsh he was on anyone that dared impede Claire's investigations. So many times Claire had been at the precinct, at the morgue, at three in the morning. It wasn't just for the job. It wasn't just for the conviction. It was for Jack. This and more flooded through her mind, and he saw the dawning realization in her eyes. It softened his.

"All right," she answered.

It was foolish. It was uncustomary. It was risky, but she let him do it.

Jack was shrugging off his jacket, the same rumpled one he had worn to the office the previous day. They were putting a bulletproof vest on him, its dark blue color blending into the night as it descended. He had to follow orders, but would be going in.


	8. Chapter 8

It came. Darkness. It crept into the corners of the room first and slowly moved toward her, like a groping hand attempting to suffocate her. Claire experienced the first stirrings of panic. She felt for the crumbling cement behind her, pushing herself to her feet as she heard it, a faint sound like that of an ancient metal door opening. Though she attempted to remain calm, her breathing quickened. She knew then what his other victims had felt, the terror that consumed them as the footsteps came closer. She was backing away from the door into the corner, her eyes riveted on the door. It was trembling slightly. She could hear the bolt being pulled back. It made a terrible screeching sound, ominous. Then it edged open. It swung and shuddered. Nothing moved beyond.

Every muscle in her body was tense. She knew the door would move, but when it did, she shook anyway. Slowly, a figure emerged from the darkness. He was only a silhouette, a shadow that caused her to stop breathing. Her fingers were starting to hurt, she was gripping the wall with such force.

"You're not afraid of the darkness, are you, Miss Kincaid?" he asked softly, his voice no more than a whisper. It was more terrible than if he had shouted, because there was an edge to his tone, a syrupy sweetness that made her skin crawl. She would not answer him, and he didn't expect her to. He was drawing nearer, slowly, his voice maintaining its utter calm. "You are very quiet," he said. "All of the others screamed. They cried. But not you. I knew you were different when I first laid eyes on you, Miss Kincaid. I knew you had dignity. I like dignity. The others, they amused me, but you… you _captivate _me. I should have known better than to expect finding you in tears. You haven't cried at all, have you?"

He reached out and touched her. She turned her face away from him, beneath the inquisitive fingertips. His hands were cold. "I wonder if he misses you," he mused. "Jack McCoy. I saw the way he looked at you. He wants you almost as much as I do. But he can't have you."

He gripped her chin in his firm hands and turned her toward him, his face so near hers that she could make out his eyes, glowing fiercely in the darkness. "No one can. You won't let them. But you'll let me, won't you?"

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but couldn't form the words. Her heart was pounding. He could feel it, throbbing through her veins. She was going to be bruised in the morning, he was gripping her so tightly. _In the morning_. What made her think she would live to see the morning? The cement was crumbling beneath her fingers, and she closed her hand around it. There was a slight sound from the darkness, in the warehouse. He turned his head, listening. She was wearing a skirt and it made bringing up her knee difficult, but she did it anyway, connecting with his midsection. Her hand came up, the cement with it, casting the dust into his eyes and leaving red fingernail marks across his face, as she raked across his pale skin.

It happened so suddenly, she didn't remember it. She was running away from him, and he knocked her legs out from under her. She went down hard, skinning her hands on the pavement, as he grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her to her knees. She cried out; she couldn't help it. A blade gleamed in the darkness, leaping into his hand as he pressed it to her throat. Then there was an explosion of sound, a flash of light. It struck him in the head and sent him crashing to the ground, the knife dropping from his fingers. The room was filled with policemen. Claire remained on the floor, too shaken to move. Her eyes lifted and beheld a familiar form on the threshold. Logan had not yet lowered his weapon.

Light bounced across the bare walls, illuminating the blood spatter. It was a clean shot to the head. Lennie was helping her to her feet. McCoy pushed through the officers and started toward her. Claire pulled free and stumbled into his arms. She could feel his heart beating as frantically as hers, thundering beneath the vest. She was so small, so fragile, but he held her tightly, resting his head against hers. He didn't know what he said in those moments, but they were of some comfort to her. He had seen the flash of the knife, heard her cry, and it was responsive, spontaneous.

There was one thing he wanted her to see. The others disagreed, but he knew she needed it.

His arm still around her, he lead her to the fallen body of Harmon and let her see he was dead; he let her gaze on the still eyes staring blankly heavenward, the hand that would never again raise against her. It was justice. For the other girls, and for Claire, for her nightmares, and for the torment she had endured.

"Don't leave me, Jack," she whispered.

He wouldn't. Ever again.


End file.
